


love you like winter, baby, until you melt

by hoosierbitch



Category: White Collar
Genre: Anal Sex, Dirty Talk, Drama, Ice Skating, M/M, Porn, Rimming, Size Kink, Wall Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-02-20
Updated: 2010-02-20
Packaged: 2017-10-09 05:21:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,891
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/83475
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hoosierbitch/pseuds/hoosierbitch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Peter and Neal are figure skaters. Who fall in love.</p>
            </blockquote>





	love you like winter, baby, until you melt

**Author's Note:**

> I still can't quite believe that I actually wrote this. [](http://community.livejournal.com/collarkink/profile)[](http://community.livejournal.com/collarkink/)**collarkink**, you inspire me. Neal in this story loosely based on Johnny Weir, the scoring system references based on the Lysacek/Plushenko debate. 

The season was finally over. All the medals had been handed out, the flowers thrown, the tears shed and champagne bottles popped. And now the cream of the crop had gathered in a small rink in Miami, Florida to prepare for the exhibition tour. Peter was less than thrilled with his performance over the past season. The new scoring system was not treating him well - his technical marks were consistently among the strongest, but his artistic scores were sorely lacking. His transitions sucked. He knew it, the commentators knew it, the judges couldn't seem to get over it. He'd been thinking about getting a new choreographer, but money was tight. At least he'd have the off-season to plan. He'd work something out. For the time being, though, he had a lot of cheesy new routines to learn and a bunch of upstart hotshot divas to put up with.

"You don't like me very much, do you," Neal Caffrey said to him one day. Caffrey was a new addition to the tour, and his entire reputation seemed to be based more on his attitude than his skating. They were in wardrobe, and Neal was busy adjusting the faux-corset that June, his costume designer, was trying to talk him out of.

Peter frowned. "I don't have any problems with you personally."

Neal smiled - kid was always smiling, even when he lost, even when he lost to Peter. "You can't possibly be homophobic, can you? Not in _this_ business."

Peter rolled his eyes. "I don't like how you skate." Neal's eyebrows raised comically - like he honestly hadn't considered that was a possibility.

"Too girly for you, too?" He asked, looking ruefully at the pink neon silk he was currently sporting.

Peter reached out a hand and grabbed Neal's wrist. "Stop putting words in my mouth, that's not what I said. I think you've got some style, sure. A lot of flash. But you're a real performer. I just don't like how you play the system - you manipulate the points better than anyone." He shrugged. "And those of us who spent our whole careers practicing our jumps but might not have the best choreographers - well - I'm sorry, but I can't help but think that there's something wrong with that equation. You're supposed to get what you work for, and I don't think you've paid your dues yet."

"Oh," Neal said, and Peter belatedly realized he was still holding Neal's arm. His fingers had encircled the kid's skinny wrist, the silk under his hand was smooth. "Okay."

Peter cleared his throat, grabbed his nondescript navy blue costume, and left.

*

Caffrey had come, almost literally, out of nowhere. From some tiny podunk town with a hockey rink, the charming Neal Caffrey had sprung, skating like he'd been born on the ice. And for all anyone knew about his past, it might even be true. He destroyed his competition in the junior's, winning a gold in the US and a silver in the world's. A year after entering the competitive circuit, there were only two competitions he'd entered that he hadn't medaled in. Peter Burke, an eight-year constant in the field, had never gotten the kind of attention Caffrey was getting now. The kid would swan around in front of the reporters spouting snarky little sound-bytes and generally making a nuisance of himself until Moz, his weird little coach, pulled him away.

On the first day of choreography they were the first two to arrive. Peter was eating his orange slices, Neal seemed to be eating a...good God. Was that an egg McMuffin? And _bacon_? "You're something else, kid, you know that?"

"Yes, I do," Neal said with a laugh. "The newspapers tell me so often enough!"

He handed Neal the last of his orange slices. "At least eat something healthy. I don't want you keeling over midday. It'd screw up everybody's schedules."

Neal's smile got impossibly bigger, but the thank you he murmured into his coffee was almost shy. Peter sat down and began the important business of putting on his skates. He absolutely did not look at Neal's ass when he skated onto the ice. Not even a little. But, like, seriously. _Damn_.

*

They're the first two in for warm-ups again the next day. Neal was there before him, sitting on the floor and stretching. He smiled brightly up at Peter, pushing his thighs even further apart like that was an acceptable substitute for 'hello'. Peter couldn't help but think that Neal's smirk was a little too...satisfied. Like he'd planned their coinciding arrivals, like Peter was playing right into his hands. Peter glared but couldn't stifle his smile when he saw the apples lined up on the chair in front of him, next to a cup of coffee.

"I got you decaf," Neal said. "A little cream. I've got some sugar, if you want to come and get it," and Peter resolutely did not think about licking Neal's neck to see what he tasted like. Neal held up a white packet. "Want some sugar, Peter?"

"Don't like coffee," he said, but when he took a sip he changed his mind. "Where'd you get this?"

"June makes it," Neal said, standing and walking over to Peter. "I'll bring you more tomorrow." He twirled away, and Peter did his best to concentrate on the technique, not how Neal's hip had brushed against him on his way out.

*

Neal was one of two men who were deemed important enough to have their own solos. The other was Tulane, a European skater with fantastic technique, who Neal (for some reason beyond Peter's comprehension) seemed to idolize. Whenever Tulane was rehearsing, Peter knew where he'd be able to find Neal. Not that he went looking for him. Often. Just occasionally, he'd check in, make sure the kid wasn't getting in any trouble. You know. Being a mentor, or a role model, or whatever. Neal was usually squeezed next to a wall a few rows back, knees tucked up under his chin, watching Tulane skate.

"I saw you staring at me," Neal told him when he sat down next to him on the bench. "Am I under surveillance for some reason, Peter?"

"Don't be stupider than you have to be. I was just wondering why you're wasting your time drooling over this guy, is all."

"Because he's _great_," Neal said with a sigh as Tulane landed his quad. He and Peter were the only ones performing quads in the exhibition. Neal had still failed to land one in competition. "He makes it look...effortless."

"Well, I think he's boring," Peter argued. "No musicality to speak of."

Neal leaned against his side. At least he was wearing a sweater, today, not some strappy skintight stripper outfit. "Thanks," Neal said. Peter shrugged and passed him a quarter of his apple. They stayed that way until Moz came hollering for Neal with his usual glare for Peter. "He sure does hate you," Neal said as he stood up.

"Why?" Peter asked.

Neal gave him a searching look. "I don't know. Maybe he mistrusts your intentions." He bent down and placed a chaste kiss on Peter's cheek. "Thanks for the apple." He walked away, and Peter had to wait for his blush to fade before following.

*

Then apparently Hughes, who'd known Peter before he'd even dreamed of the quad jumps that would make him famous, back when he was still wearing baby blue Lycra, decided it would be fun to fuck with Peter's blood pressure. "We're adding another duet," he said, and Cruz and Jones - the top American pairs team - perked up. "We're going to put Caffrey and Burke out there for a three minute filler between the ladies' skate and the final routine. We've got Diana Lancing coming in tomorrow to start teaching you the routine. No questions, great, see you all tomorrow." He was out of the room before Peter had a chance to overcome his shock.

"Isn't this _great_," Neal said as he danced around Peter. "We're partners! Aren't you just absolutely _elated?_" Peter groaned, rubbed his face, and said nothing. He needed a drink.

*

Diana was brilliant, Neal was a pro, it was absolute hell. Peter just couldn't seem to get anything right, no matter how much time he put in, how much he wanted it, how hard he worked. "Peter," Neal said to him after an especially grueling work-out, "what's going on? Is there something wrong? Is it me?"

"No," Peter interrupted. "Why would you even think that? I don't think you could look bad on the ice if you tried."

Neal looked flattered, but worried. "Is it the routine? You don't have to worry about anyone thinking you're gay. You're married, aren't you? I'll make sure to bring that up in interviews."

"Shut up, Neal," he said, and he could actually hear the faint sound of Neal's teeth clacking shut. Elizabeth had called him just the night before, as a matter of fact. She'd heard about the routine and wanted to get some juicy details. Especially details about Neal, who, according to her, was just _fabulous_. "I used to be married. There isn't any bad blood between us or anything, it's just - I mean, she could deal with the long hours, the crappy pay - but when I started travelling, we fell apart. She wanted a home. I had to choose between her and my career, and...I just can't even imagine what my life would be like without skating. And why do you keep thinking I'm homophobic, anyway?" He frowned. "I haven't done anything to give you that impression, have I?"

"No," Neal said quickly. "You're a real gentleman."

Peter laughed and leaned back against the wall. Neal started stretching (he never seemed to stop when Peter was around), pulling one knee up to his chest and holding it for ten seconds, then switching legs. "I tried pairs skating," Peter told him. "Back when I first started. I had the build for it, I had the strength to toss girls through the air. It just never...stuck." He fidgeted in the silence. "I mean, I can work in groups and everything, I can fake it for a stunt or two - but - "

"You don't trust easily, do you," Neal said. Peter shrugged and started stretching his arms. He didn't miss the fact that Neal tended to stare at his arms more when he was wearing his undershirts. When Neal stepped towards him and put his hands on Peter's shoulders, he thought he'd fallen asleep. He had to be dreaming. But then Neal moved Peter's hands to his hips and told Peter to lift him.

"I trust you," Neal said. "There've been a whole lot of people in my life who've let me down. You're not going to be one of them."

Peter tightened his grip, Neal braced himself on Peter's shoulders, and he lifted Neal off the ground. They spun, Neal laughed breathlessly (Peter could feel his ribs expand), and the dismount was perfect until Neal tackled him to the ground. "We're going to be brilliant," Neal told him, his breath hot on Peter's ear. "Everyone's going to love you."

*

The better they got in practice, the less sleep Peter got. He'd lie awake in his hotel room, stare at the peeling ceiling, and wonder what he'd done in his life to deserve this. Diana's choreography was...beautiful. It wasn't a love story (not on a tour sponsored by Smucker's) but it wasn't a comedy routine, not a competition. Instead, it was about friendship. About being able to lean on the people around you, letting them lift you, about the things you could achieve together that you couldn't apart. It made him miss Elizabeth terribly. That wasn't why he was loosing sleep.

He'd started dreaming about Neal. He knew - well, Elizabeth had enlightened him and he'd eventually come to terms with the fact, that he was occasionally a little bit gay. But he'd never met anyone like Neal. Neal was living in some crappy apartment with his coach, Moz (who'd started calling Peter 'Jock'), and they'd started meeting before warm-ups every morning for breakfast. Neal brought coffee, Peter would pick up bagels or croissants at the bakery by the hotel. Peter started stealing extra fruit from the hotel and keeping it in his bag.

Then he'd spend the whole day touching Neal and trying not to get hard. He had to put his hands on Neal's thighs, his hips, hold his graceful hands. Neal's quiet voice talked him through all of the lifts, all of the throws. "You got it, Peter," he'd say, and Peter would let go. Neal, like a cat, landed on his feet almost every time.

*

And then he saw Neal perform his solo. It was late at night, everyone was supposed to have cleared the rink. And he heard the first melancholy strains of cello music, and known that it was Neal. If their duet was about partnership, Neal's solo was just that: it was about being alone. There was a sadness in each spin, his elegant hands reaching out, his footwork sequences desperate - like he was running from someone, like he was proving something.

"When you jump," Peter said into the silence that had fallen, Neal standing in the center of the rink, breathing heavily. "You can't think about it like something you have to do. You've got to stop thinking you're going to fall." He wanted to go out onto the ice, go to Neal (who seemed so strong, so alone). But his skates were already in his bag. And Neal looked like he might break if Peter touched him. "You have to hate the ice a little, I think. You've got to want to leave the ground. And then you've got to trust it'll be under your feet when you land."

"My mom used to tell me I always had my head in the clouds," Neal said when he'd recovered from the surprise of seeing Peter. It was the first time he'd said anything about his family. "But she never knew me that well."

Peter waited for him to pack up, and they left the rink together.

*

The interviews started a week before their first performance. He and Neal went to most of them together, and Peter spent majority of them sitting quietly while the reporters asked Neal frighteningly personal questions. They wanted to know about his family, his sexuality, his relationships - only about one question in every ten was about skating. Neal and Peter parroted the same rehearsed lines about the duet over and over. Diana's a visionary, no they're not trying to campaign for same-sex pairs skating, yes they know it's a bit risque, working together was a great opportunity. Neal was a master of deflection. He flirted with the reporters, told them what they wanted to hear, revealing nothing of himself.

"I think," Peter said, as he drove Neal back to his apartment, swatting Neal's hands away from the GPS, "that you're a great skater."

"No you don't," Neal replied. "You just feel sorry for me right now. You think I'm flashy, but don't work hard enough."

Peter remembered their first conversation with a cringe. He grabbed Neal's wrist again and held on. Neal was wearing short sleeves this time, he could feel Neal's skin and the pulse under his thumb. "I'm a jealous old man who can't learn new tricks. And you? You, Neal Caffrey, were born to skate."

Neal's breath hitched, and Peter held on until he pulled up in front of Neal's building. Inside the Taurus, radio off, the light from a street lamp throwing distorting shadows, Neal leaned over the seat and kissed him. "Just because you're old school," Neal whispered into his neck, "doesn't mean you're old."

Neal kissed him and it was everything Peter had been dreaming it would be. Neal yielded to him, wrapped his hands around his head, lips soft and opening for him. Peter bit his lip and Neal moaned. "Come upstairs with me," Neal whispered, and Peter turned off the car and followed him inside.

They snuck into the apartment ("if we wake Moz, I'll never hear the end of it") and into Neal's bedroom. It was small, only a few beautiful reproductions decorating his walls. The twin bed was the best thing Peter had seen since he'd arrived in Miami. Neal turned on his radio and the room filled with the strains of Tchaikovsky. "Dance with me," he breathed, and Peter surged forward to take his mouth again.

"Strip," he ordered. Neal complied, quickly. He'd spent so long looking at Neal in skin-tight outfits, he hadn't imagined that seeing Neal nude would be that different. He was wrong. The same streetlamp was shining through the window, and Peter's mouth watered at the sight of Neal's pale skin. The dark pink of his nipples, the dip between each rib, the tantalizing dark trail leading to his hard cock. Neal laughed at his obvious fascination and moved forward.

"Let me help you with that," he said, and he slid his hands under Peter's shirt. He teased Peter's nipples before pulling the shirt over his head. "I've had a crush on you since I was fourteen," Neal said. "I saw you skate in Minneapolis, and I wanted - " He unbuttoned Peter's pants and slid his hand into his boxers. "This." His clever fingers started stroking his cock, and Peter thrust up into his grip.

Peter moved his hands over the impossible bend of Neal's lower back, the sway of his spine as he leaned into Peter, the slope of his buttocks. He knew these curves. He knew the weight of Neal in his arms, he knew what he could make Neal do. He pushed Neal against the wall, squeezed his ass, and lifted. Neal let go of Peter's dick to moan against his neck, sucking a hickey onto his skin, and wrapped his legs around Peter's waist. "You're so beautiful," he said, pressing their cocks together. "I love watching you."

Peter held on. Neal tightened his thighs and started rubbing himself against Peter's stomach, searching for friction on Peter's tense abs. Peter was close to coming already (had been hard since the interview, touching Neal surreptitiously as much as he could - a hand on Neal's neck, his wrist, his shoulder) so he lifted Neal up until he could bite at his nipple and slide his cock along Neal's ass, between his tight cheeks, against his hole. Neal writhed and moaned. "Oh, fuck, Peter, we gotta be quiet - "

Peter bit down harder and Neal wailed. "I've been losing sleep over you for weeks," he said. "Moz can just deal with it." Neal pressed his nipple back into Peter's mouth, one hand on his shoulder for leverage, the other pulling his hair.

"You want to come like this, Peter? Fuck me up against the wall, wake up the neighbors, make me come all over your chest? Bite my nipples until I scream?" Peter bit down again and Neal obliged. "Or you could take me to bed and fuck my ass, Peter, you keep rubbing my hole...you could be inside of me, Peter."

Peter spun them around and tossed Neal onto the bed, his laughter only a little louder than the sound of the headboard hitting the wall. "Where's your lube," Peter demanded, his fingers already stroking over Neal's little hole.

"Bedside table, first drawer."

Peter opened it and laughed at what he found. "You keep your medals with your lube?"

"They make me hot, what are you going to do about it? I like shiny things."

Peter grabbed Neal's ankles and lifted them up until Neal's feet were above his head. "Hold on," he said. Then he bent down and licked at Neal's hole. Neal cried out with surprise at the sensation, unable to cover his mouth, and when Peter pushed past the rim, he got even louder. "Love you spread open for me," he said, slicking up two of his fingers and pushing them in. Neal mewled at the intrusion. Then he scissored his fingers open and licked between them, reveling in the impossibly tight heat, the gradual stretch. Neal sobbed when he pushed in a third finger and began licking at his balls. Neal's thighs were shaking, trying uselessly to thrust himself further down.

He took pity on Neal eventually and let him come. All it took were three quick strokes and Neal came with a scream, his thighs falling open and his hips rocking up against Peter's hands, crying for more. Peter kept his fingers inside Neal's hole, drumming against his prostate, and he licked at the semen on his stomach until Neal whimpered at his touch.

Peter grabbed a condom from the drawer and quickly rolled it on before looking at Neal's hole - "don't think I'm going to fit," he said, looking at the size of his cock against Neal's entrance. Neal lifted his feet and put them on Peter's shoulders, bending himself nearly in half, giving Peter all the leverage he could want.

"Fuck me," he said softly, so Peter did. Neal opened for him beautifully, the intense concentration on his face endearing.

"You're gorgeous," Peter said. "So fucking sexy, taking my cock."

Neal nodded like it was a question and then gasped when Peter finished pushing it. "Jesus! How the hell do you hide that thing in your costume? You're hung like a fucking horse! Ah - " Peter smacked his ass and told him to shut up.

Neal laughed and then moaned as Peter started to thrust, slowly at first, gaining speed with each whimper Neal gave him. The angle was good, not great - he knocked Neal's feet from his shoulders, lifted them into a sitting position, and kissed the yell out of Neal's mouth when the new position forced the last inch of Peter's cock inside him. Neal was still limp from his orgasm, and Peter had to lift him up and down to get the friction he was dying for. Neal wrapped tired arms around his shoulders and kissed him messily.

When Peter came, it was with a desperate sob, and Neal whispering in his ear "so good, baby, just let go, I got you." He bit down on Neal's neck and came until he couldn't breath, Neal so tight around him, so graceful in his arms.

Neal pulled off of him with a groan and cleaned them up. "I don't think that's going to gain me any brownie points with Moz," Peter said, looking at the dent marks they'd put in the wall.

"You'll win him over," Neal said confidently. Peter lifted his arm and Neal slid under it, nuzzling against his side. Falling asleep with Neal next to him felt right. His hand over Peter's chest, legs twined together, head on his shoulder. "Tomorrow," Neal said determinedly, "we are going to have bacon for breakfast. I'm going to need to be at full strength to avoid getting hard every time you lift me. Jesus, your head's in my _crotch_ half the time..."

"How about I just suck you off in the locker room a few times?"

Neal laughed. "I wonder what the reporters are going to say about this."

"Let them talk. For the next four weeks," he said, kissing Neal's forehead, "you're mine."


End file.
